The sea unfastens itself,
spills open over stone.
I cast my grief into the foam,
watch it unravel,
then return.

The wind moves without purpose,
pulling at things already broken.
Memory, a thread stretched thin,
still refuses to let go.

The fire took your name,
spoke it once, then turned to ash.
But even in ruin,
something lingers,
something waits.

I call the water to take it all,
to wash clean what the light exposes.
But the ocean is a keeper,
a quiet mouth that never forgets.

Regret drifts beyond reach,
splintered, sinking,
too heavy to lift,
too distant to call back.

And you—
a breath, an absence,
a shape the tide cannot hold.
I step past the harbor’s edge,
and walk into what remains.